


The Unrighteous Wear White

by Birdpeople (DeusExMachina)



Category: Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: And Bruce starts to write back, Basically this is the story where, He lets him know in poem form, Poetry, When Tim figures out who Batman is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeusExMachina/pseuds/Birdpeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The odds are stacked,<br/>The unrighteous wear white,<br/>Can you be my own Dark Knight?</p><p>Tim chewed the end of his pen pensively. Was that okay?</p><p>He had known for years that Bruce Wayne was the Batman, had known ever since he had seen Robin number one, Dick Grayson, perform that flip flawlessly. No one else so young could move like that. No one else could move like that, period.</p><p>But things were different now. The Batman had been flying solo as of late. Ever since Jason Todd had-</p><p>Well.</p><p>Anyway, Gotham was suffering. The Batman was suffering. He needed a Robin. Why couldn’t he see that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unrighteous Wear White

_The odds are stacked,_

_The unrighteous wear white,_

_Can you be my own Dark Knight?_

 

Tim chewed the end of his pen pensively. Was that okay?

 

He had known for years that Bruce Wayne was the Batman, had known ever since he had seen Robin number one, Dick Grayson, perform that flip flawlessly. No one else so young could move like that. No one else could move like that, period.

 

But things were different now. The Batman had been flying solo as of late. Ever since Jason Todd had-

 

Well.

 

Anyway, Gotham was suffering. The Batman was suffering. He _needed_ a Robin. Why couldn’t he see that?

 

Tim set his teeth into the back end of his pen, frowning.

 

_The unrighteous wear white._

Well that was true, wasn’t it? Those spartan Arkaham courtesy coats.

 

But still, _my own Dark Knight?_ A little too sentimental, perhaps? He didn’t want to seem needy….

 

Coming to a decision, he vigorously crossed out those words, substituting those that would seem more professional. It occurred to him to wonder why he was formatting his correspondence thusly. Why a poem?

 

 _Well_ , he though grimly, _because I am a child prone to flights of fancy, of course._

 

Finally satisfied, he read over his final draft one last time.

_The odds are stacked,_

_The unrighteous wear white,_

_Can you be ~~my own~~ Gotham’s Dark Knight? _

 

The World’s Greatest Detective would surely be able to lift Tim’s fingerprints, analyze his handwriting. But with nothing to compare them too, they would be of little use in identifying Tim.

 

Stuffing the poem into an envelope, Tim hesitated. How should he address it? Surely Bruce Wayne received dozens of correspondences a day. Addressing it to Batman would certainly get his attention, but did he want to address a letter to Wayne Manor and then stick ‘To Batman’ over it? No, he did not.

 

So he’d have to hand-deliver it. Now. At once. Before he lost his nerve.

 

Dressing attentively in a hoodie and jeans and his most-worn shoes, he left.

 

On the subway he was a bundle of nervous energy. He tried to feel brave and adult and responsible for doing this alone, for taking the subway alone, but he just felt young and scared and foolish. He almost lost his nerve several times. In the end, he got off a stop early and walked the rest of the way, feeling the cold, gritty air on his exposed face, conscious of how the wind whistled through the gaps between the buildings, through the streets, blowing trash downtown toward the lowest levels of the rotting underbelly of the city where such things always fetched up.

 

His feet felt heavy, the soles of his shoes thin. He was numb with the chill and terrified under the numbness. He couldn’t believe his own gall. Only the thought that if he turned around now and headed home he’d be, well, _home_ kept him going.

 

He finally reached the gates of Wayne Manor, no less imposing that the name they belonged to. He found the call button and, with fingers trembling, pressed it.

 

A voice answered instantly, cool, efficient, British. Alfred Pennyworth, Tim’s numb mind supplied, Bruce Wayne’s butler.  

 

“Who might I say is calling?”

 

Tim swallowed. What should he say? His hands shook as he held down the button. “Just a fan.”

 

“Well, I’m afraid that Mr. Wayne-”

 

“Not a fan of Bruce Wayne,” Tim said, pushing back his hood and glancing up at the security camera mounted above the call button, “A fan of the Bat.”

 

There was silence on the other end.

 

“I wrote him a letter. I’ll just leave it here,” Tim said, heart in his throat. That silence. Could he have been wrong? He couldn’t bear to be there when his letter was discovered and read. So he turned and ran. Or, not quite ran, not flat-out. He waited until he was a few blocks away for that.

 

He rode the subway home, heart constricting painfully, blinking back the tears of pain that came with an anxiety-induced migraine. God, he was stupid. What did he think would happen?

 

\---

 

He woke up the next morning, early as usual. He liked to get up before his father left for work. The house was quiet then, the sun not yet high enough to pierce the impenetrable high-rise fortress of the city streets of which his home was but a single tower.

 

As he returned to his room, hair damp from the shower, a mug of coffee cupped gratefully in his cold hands, he noticed something on his desk.

 

An envelope.

 

Frowning in confusion, he sat, took a letter opener, an ornate, useless gift from his father, chosen by someone else, and slit open the edge.

 

He slid out a single piece of paper. Heavy, expensive paper. He turned it over, absently noting the bold, jagged quality of the handwriting. It looked like whoever had written it had erased a few words above the main body of text.

 

Tim snapped on his desk lamp, flinching at the sudden light. Tilting the thick paper, he made out the press of pencil marks left on the soft fibers where the graphite had been removed. He was just able to make out the words.

 

 _No more children_.

 

No more children. Tim sat up properly as the meaning of the words slowly sunk in. Could this be related to- but surely not. Who had delivered the letter in the night? And who had found his room and placed it on his desk? _No more children_. Jason Todd. But the Batman needed a Robin-

 

Heart pounding, coffee cooling, forgotten for once, Tim flipped over the envelope. There was no address, no stamp or return address, either. But it was of the same quality of paper as the letter.

 

Abruptly he realized that in his muddled state of half-wakefulness, he had neglected to read the actual letter. He bent over it.

 

The words were few.

 

_You may have heard_

_I’m in need of a bird_

_Whose wings aren’t tied to the ground._

Tim was reeling. Holy shit. _Batman knows he needs a Robin. He knows._ So, what? He had been impressed by how Tim had sussed him? He wasn’t angry? Or was this a trick to get Tim to meet with him so that the Batman could assess if he ran the danger of Tim revealing his secret.

 

But no. The Batman knew where he lived, knew where to find him. The appearance of the letter was evidence enough of that.

 

After staring into space for an unknown duration, Tim turned his glazed eyes back to the paper. He read the words again, unseeing, and again, and again.

 

He tried to view them analytically, as if that would help him make sense of the fact that not only had he been right, but that the Batman had _written him back._

 

The lines had nearly the same syllables as Tim’s had had, but they seemed sharper, more terse.

 

 _I’m in need of a bird_.

 

Now, that was an invitation if ever Tim heard one. But was it really? _Was it?_ How could he be sure?

 

He grabbed another piece of paper, taking an absentminded swig of cold coffee and grimacing.

 

He wrote intently before rereading, shaking his head, crossing out, rewriting, rereading, squinting, rereading, consulting the poem that had been sent to him, standing up, pacing, sitting down again, rereading, and finally taking an envelope and sealing his own poem just as he started to hear the other occupants of the house begin to stir.

 

He jumped up. He’d have to wait until after school to deliver this one. He knew he’d be useless in class with this on his mind, but that really couldn’t be helped.

 

There was a spring in his step as he went through his morning routine. _He had written back!_

 

He smiled to himself as his patted where his newest letter was concealed in his pocket.

 

Just before he left the room, his eyes swept over it automatically, chaotic and dull in the flat, early-morning light. His eyes landed on the letter that still lay on his desk. Impulsively, he took it and, in a bout of childlike superstition, got down on his knees and squirmed into the tight space under his bed, prying up a couple of floorboards, working from memory in the dusty darkness. He groped around under there, shuddering as his fingers broke strong, sticky strands of cobweb. Finally, he located the flimsy shoebox, right where he had left it so long ago. Without looking at the contents, he pulled up the lid with a couple of fingers and thrust the Batman’s letter and fancy envelope in there before replacing the floorboards and squirming out backwards.

 

Pausing only to smooth his hair and carefully brush down his clothes, he left, closing the door behind him.

 

Secretly, he fingered the letter his had written. It rested in his pocket, dangerous, a manifestation of his hopes and selfish desires. As childlike as the superstitious way he had trusted the Batman’s confidence to his old hiding place.

 

_I am not restrained,_

_And although I’m not trained,_

_I will be the help ~~you need~~ Batman needs. _

 

\---

 

Tim was wide-awake with anticipation when he went to bed that night. Should he stay up in wait for the reply? But no, that felt like a betrayal. If Batman wanted to talk to him, he wouldn’t wait until Tim was presumably asleep. He briefly considered putting out milk and cookies, but rejected the idea on the grounds that the Batman might not appreciate the joke. He was trying to seem professional, after all.

 

It felt like he fell asleep one moment, and the next, it was dawn. He stretched for a moment, luxuriating, before remembering his ongoing correspondence and leaping out of bed. He checked his desk, and had to stifle his laughter with one hand.

 

Picking up the newest envelope, he sat, turning on his lamp. After a moment, however, his sense of glee withered and died and a soft wellspring of shame and terror weltered to the surface. He had offered himself up in that last poem to the service of Gotham. Why had he done that? Was he prepared for the rejection he was surely about to read? Was he prepared for his offer to be accepted? He knew he wasn’t physical equal to the duties of Robin, to fly alongside the Bat.

 

He squared his shoulders. This is what he wanted. He wanted this. And whether his offer was accepted or rejected, he would know soon enough. He had told the Batman that he was not restrained. And so he slit open the envelope.

 

_It’s not the help, but a Robin he needs,_

_As for the training, Nightwing will lead._

_From there we will see how you play._

 

Tim felt weak with relief. Of course, Batman understood. He knew that Robin filled a role no other sidekick had a claim to. Robin was a partner more than a protégé, a companion more than an assistant.

 

But _training_. He was going to meet Nightwing. And Dick Grayson was going to _train him_. He wondered briefly if Dick Grayson remembered him from all those years ago. Probably not, he decided.

 

 _From there we will see how you play._ So the formal decision on his eligibility was still up in the air. To be determined.

 

Thoughtfully, he wormed his way under his bed, hiding the new letter with the first one, considering how to reply. Finally, he set pen to paper.

 

_I think you may find_

_I match you in mind_

_To make up for my lack of a frame._

 

Was that okay? Did he really dare compare himself to the Bat?

 

 _Yes,_ he decided _. Batman sees something in me. I should be up-front about my physical limitations, but it won’t hurt to play up my one asset, either._

 

He left for school, wondering, as he went, exactly when Nightwing was planning on contacting him.

 

\---

 

The next night Tim was wakened by the slightest of noises. It sounded like a throat being cleared. He was suddenly seized with a bout of nerves. No, he wasn’t supposed to be awake to observe the Bat. This wasn’t right. He probably hadn’t meant to wake Tim. He burrowed further under his blankets, flipping a corner over his cold nose to essentially hide his face and eliminate the temptation of peeking.

 

Then someone laid a hand on his shoulder.

 

Tim froze. Not the Bat, then. Who? His parents? What were they doing in his room? What were they doing laying a hand on him? They normally liked to keep him at least at an arm’s distance in all senses of the phrase.

 

“Hey, are you awake?” Not his parents either.

 

Tim sat bolt-upright. And stared.

 

It was Nightwing. Nightwing, here, in Gotham, in Tim Drake’s bedroom, the window wide open behind him, allowing in gentle eddies of freezing night air.

 

Nightwing looked stricken at the sight of Tim, and ran a hand distractedly through his own hair. “Geez, you’re young,” he muttered.

 

Tim pulled the blankets higher up his lap, defensively. Did Nightwing not approve of him? He wasn’t sure he could stand it if that were the case.

 

“I’m older than you were when you started as Robin,” Tim said quietly.

 

Nightwing flashed him a grin. It seemed a little sad around the edges, but the look was soon gone. “Yeah, but I’m me.”

 

“Dick Grayson.”

 

“Mm.” Nightwing hauled over Tim’s desk chair, taking a seat. Tim suddenly felt self-conscious, sitting in his bed in his pajamas as he talked to his childhood hero. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Nightwing said, “how did you find us out? Did someone tell you who we are? I need to know for security purposes. I can tell you, Bruce was rattled.”

 

Tim shook his head. “I figured it out.” He hesitated. This was kind of personal, and of course he had never told anyone of this, but then again, it was Dick’s story, too. “We’ve met before, even if I doubt you can remember it.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah. Yes. At the circus.” Tim studied Nightwing carefully, but his face remained impassive, his mask hiding any tells Tim might have gathered from seeing his eyes. “We took a picture together before the show. Your parents and you and me. And I saw you perform. You were-” Tim cut himself off. No need to go into hero-worship now. “Anyway. That one flip. The one no one else could do. When I saw Robin perform the same one not several months later, I remembered, and I knew.”

 

From there it was easy. Robin was Dick Grayson and Dick Grayson had been charitably adopted by one Bruce Wayne. And when Robin became Nightwing, Bruce Wayne adopted another boy, Jason Todd, and suddenly Robin was on the streets again, in the skies again alongside the Bat. But Jason-”

 

Nightwing nodded slowly. “I can see why Bruce is impressed by you. You’re a smart cookie. But you need more than that to be Robin.”

 

Tim sat forward eagerly. “The last letter said something about training.”

 

“And that I can give you. But there’s something else you need. And Bruce is gonna tell you that you’ll have to follow his every order, and if you want to keep your job, you probably should. But I’ll tell you a secret, one Robin to another.” Tim felt a thrill at the words and leaned in a little. “Sometimes it’s going to be hard. So hard you don’t even know why you bother, or if Bruce even appreciates you or if either of you are even making a difference. There are gonna be times when you question Batman’s orders. You’re going to have to balance your instinct and his grand plans. It won’t do you any good to ignore either, trust me, but the balancing act can only come with experience.” Nightwing stood up and handed Tim an envelope. “You’re going to be tired all the time, too. And even when we’re done training you, don’t think you can’t call me up any time if you’re feeling overwhelmed. We’re brothers now.”

 

Tim felt a lump in his throat as he watched Nightwing head to the window. Perching on the sill, he turned to Tim, the blue slice of his uniform cutting through the ambient glow of the headlights and streetlamps below. “Also,” Nightwing seemed almost hesitant, undecided. “Do you still have that picture? Of my parents?”

 

Tim understood instantly. “I’ll send a copy to Wayne Manor,” he said softly.

 

Dick cast him a grateful look. Then Tim blinked, and he was gone.

 

He fell asleep with the newest poem held tightly in his fist.

 

_Faith and strength and a need to save,_

_This is what past Robins gave._

_It’s a legacy heavy as the grave._

 

\---

 

Holding his own next poem, Tim wondered if he should continue to hand-deliver the letters, or if he should leave them on his desk in the hope that Batman would think to come by and check there. Surely, someone would start to notice him heading to Wayne Manor every day.

 

Finally, he addressed the envelope, making sure to return address it. He posted it, knowing that the pace of the letters would surely slow now. If what Nightwing had said was right, he should be savoring what sleep he got these days.

 

_Faith, I have, in Batman and you,_

_And faith in myself, I think I can do,_

_And that legacy is something upon which I drew._

\---

 

The next poem was different from the others. Personal, curious. Acknowledging that Tim was Tim and not just the Once and Future Robin.

 

_You may withhold,_

_If it’s dear to you,_

_But was your Robin one or two?_

 

Tim’s eyes strayed automatically toward his bed. With a sigh, he made sure his bedroom door was locked before getting down on his knees to retrieve the shoebox under his bed.

 

He wriggled out with it, sitting back on his heels in the middle of the floor and absentmindedly brushing fluff out of his hair.

 

Opening the box, he began to spread out the contents. First, he made a careful stack of the newer letters, the envelopes of which he had begun to number. Next came his semi-professional photos from when he had bought himself a good camera and set up a darkroom and told himself that photography was his passion. There were some quite nice amateur shots in there, he thought, as he sorted through them.

 

Underneath that were the childish plastic Polaroids, poorly-lit and blurry. Under that, articles: the topmost layer of which were highlighted with great diligence and the lowest of which were circled in loving crayon. There was a photo in there, too. He studied it for a moment before setting it aside. He had told Nightwing that he would make a copy, after all.

 

And below that, oh god, he hadn’t gone through this box in years. He had almost forgotten. The very bottom-most layer comprised drawings, young, stick-figure things drawn in pencil and gone over in crayon. He had used to show his parents the ones of him and Dick holding hands and smiling under the tightrope. Pure childish fancy, of course, but he had been star-struck then and still was, if he was being honest to himself.

 

There were pictures of Batman, too, always with a smile drawn in, and sometimes pictures of the Joker or of Catwoman or Ivy. There was a lot down here. He had been prolific in his youth. There were some figures that he recognized only by the badly misspelled labels, the fact of which brought a smile to his face, thinking of Greek urns wherein the artists would often label the heroes.

 

Finally, he packed it all away, all of his lovingly-preserved paraphernalia, and returned the box to its usual hiding place.

 

Seating himself at his desk, he wrote intently.

 

_Photos and papers of both, I’ll admit,_

_And many of Batman as well._

_Maybe I’ll, for this role, be fit?_

 

There, that was fine. A little cautious optimism never hurt anybody.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that!! I wrote those poems two or three years ago, but only recently decided to incoporate them into a story. So there you go.
> 
> For more writing stuff and general comics love, come find me on tumblr~ (quasi-birdpeople.tumblr.com)


End file.
